


Crying Uncle

by geometricant_01



Category: AU - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5230130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geometricant_01/pseuds/geometricant_01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amery and Liza are going off to America to finish a business deal and John, still in primary school, is to be left in the care of his uncle, Sherlock Holmes.<br/>Both John and Sherlock are rather unhappy about the arrangement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Receiving Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> Amery Holmes is the third Holmes' brother who married Liza Watson (John Watson's mother) both of whom I made up for the purpose of this story.

**THE WATSON-HOLMES RESIDENCE**

John was scrubbing the dishes from dinner, squeezing soap suds from the sponge, feeling them ooze between his fingers as he scraped, when his mother finally broke the silence.

Her voice was level and matter-of-fact, as if she’d practiced the line several times before. “Your father and I will be in the States for the remainder of the year, to finish closing the deal, and you’ll be needing a place to stay.”

John perked up, looking over his shoulder at his mother. “Why don’t I come to America with you?”

John’s mother leaned against the counter, looking up from the hand her chin rested on. “And have you switch schools right at the end of your last year? I don’t think so.” She sighed, righting herself and bumping her hip to his, gesturing for the dish rag. “Besides, we’ll be too busy to properly look after you.”

John complied, handing her the rag, but frowned into the soapy abyss that was the sink. “I’m seventeen. I don’t need either of you looking after me in the same way that I don’t need a nanny. I can stay here on my own just fine.”

“Oh, and I suspect you’ll suddenly be able to wake up to your alarms without my help after our departure?” She chuckled, drying off the plates John had rinsed off.

“Ah,” John faltered but fell back on track after a moment. “I’ll buy more of 'em, set them around the room so I’ll have to wake up.”

“Mmm, good plan. You can do that at your uncle’s place.” She nodded, a smirk on her lips.

John fought the urge to stomp his foot. “No, I can do it here. At _home_.”

His mother patted her hands dry and turned, spine now leaning against the counter's edge. “You will not spend your last semester of primary school alone with no one to supervise you. I’ve seen how close you and that Sarah girl have been getting. You can hardly afford any more distractions. Your grades will not slip, you hear me?”

“I want to study to be a doctor, Mum. I can’t afford to let my grades slip regardless of whether I have a girlfriend or not.” The boy countered, drying his hands off as well.

“Well, good. You’ll have less temptation with an adult to watch over you.”

After a moment, watching his mother’s unwavering expression, John sighed, resigning. “So, which one?”

“What, dear?” She smiled, as if oblivious.

“Which one of my uncle’s will I be staying with?” John pushed, putting the dishes into their respective cupboards.

“Oh,” She averted her stare, making her way out of the kitchen. “Sherlock.”

“Bloody hell, you've got to be-” John tried to keep from sticking out his tongue, or rather, gagging in response. “I’d rather Mycroft,” He admitted, which was painful to say aloud, to say the least.

“As you well know, Mycroft is far too busy dealing with running the country, or whatever the hell it is he does, to deal with a teenager. Besides, Sherlock has a permanent address I can rely on. Who know where Mycroft lives, much less, where he gets off to for months on end." She paused, then turned, a delighted smile across her face. "And Sherlock lives above that darling woman. Martha Hudson. I remember you loved Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Most people tend to be rather fond of the person who's willing to take them the ER, yes." John weighed his head on his shoulder. "But no matter how charming Mrs. Hudson was, and how delish her biscuits were, it's not worth it. At least I'll be comforted by the fact that, with Mycroft, I can be sure I won’t end up exploding from one Sherlock’s experiments.” John threw up his hands, putting air quotes around the last word.

Her expression turned sincere. “Sherlock wasn’t at a good place in his life back then. We never should’ve trusted him to care for you- even if it was just for a day. But he’s better now and Amery promised his brother will be on his best behavior during you stay.”

“Seven years old, showing up to second grade with no eyebrows. Not a single hair. All because that bloody madman left combustible substances around while entertaining a kid.” John muttered, shuttering at the memory.

“Yes, well, now you know better than to go touching his things. Lesson learned.”

“Mum, that’s not the point.”

“The point is, this decision has already been made. You’re my child, and while I love you and respect you opinion, on this particular matter, arguing will do you no good.” 

“Well, what about Harry?”

“What about her?” Harry stuck her head out from the laundry room, a load of whites following her.

“Why don’t I stay with you?”

“In the two bedroom apartment I share with three other people? No, actually, make that four, since Hannah’s decided to move her bloody boyfriend in along with her.” Harry sounded as bitter as she looked, but the moment passed and she went back to sorting her things on the couch, an absent smile on her face.

“I’m small, you won’t even notice I’m there.” He knew he was grasping at straws, but anything was better than living with Sherlock.

“Sorry, bro. No room.” She spared a wistful glance back at the laundry room. “I’m going to miss free wash cycles when you’ve gone.” She directed at their mother.

“Love you, too, sweetheart.” Liza Waston rolled her eyes, a fond smile across her face. “And that blouse is mine- don’t think of taking it back up to college with you. A shirt isn’t going to magically turn you twenty-one.” She swiped the dated shirt and shook her head.

“Fine, I’ll stick to Frat parties then.”

“Don’t joke.” Their mother held out a taut finger and returned to her room to pack.

 

**MYCROFT'S OFFICE**

“Sherlock, this boy in your nephew.” Mycroft no longer had any patience to run out of. The problem in the Middle East was only being further agitated, not to mention to recent proceedings in France.

“Only because _he_ married her.”

“Don’t act as if what he did was such a betrayal. Amery was always the most normal of the three of us. You knew this was going to happen eventually.” Mycroft had never bothered with Amery- never gave him the lecture on sentiment, knowing it would only be laughed off. Care-free idiot.

“Just because he is less like us, didn’t mean he had to settle down with an idiot.” Sherlock huffed. “Even if I did know it was inevitable, how was I supposed to know he’d want to drop his idiot's offspring off at my door whenever the mood struck?”

“Amery has only asked you to watch this boy one other time, at which you failed miserably, might I remind you. And yet still, he trusts you to not kill his child. That says something. He always did share the romantic notion that you had more of a heart than you let on.”

“Something he never found in you.” Sherlock countered.

“You can’t find something that isn’t there, brother-dear. My sentiment remains only within the bloodline. I have the ability to be pragmatic. I understand that all ties, romantic or otherwise, leave one vulnerable.” Mycroft shifted in his seat. “You and Amery have always been more emotional.” The final word was spoken with both discomfort and distaste, as to be excepted.

“Do not compare me to him in such ways. It’s ludicrous.”

“Regardless of what you tell yourself about you feelings, or lack thereof, this boy has been put in you care, as well as Amery’s trust. If you would like, I can arrange to have him taken to an apartment equipped with a string of around-the-clock maids, nannies, and any other sort of handler I see fit, but I will inform Amery of his son’s relocation, and you know how the news will upset him.”

“Move the boy. Don’t tell Amery. I’ll owe you… three favors.” 

“No. No negotiations. Either grow up and take responsibility or suffer the consequences.”

Sherlock glared at his elder brother, wishing he could pop his pompous head through sheer will-power. "I’ll take the boy." He paused, tapping the tips of his fingers against his brother's desk. "But... If the boy breaks and comes willingly running to you, then he leaves without a word and I don’t have to face one of Amery’s infamous guilt-trips.”

“Fine. If John comes to me and asks to be relocated, I will accommodate him without notifying Amery on your inability to connect with another human being, which will simply delay the inevitable moment when you finally succeed in breaking the last hopes he had for you into tiny little pieces.”

“How very gracious of you.” The younger brother glowered, searing holes into his brother's forehead.

“Go now. I’m busy and John should be arriving soon.” Mycroft dismissed him with a wave of his regal hand.


	2. (RE) Meeting the Uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson arrives at Bakerstreet only to find no one's home.

**221B BAKERSTREET**

John could feel the annoyance radiating off of his uncle in waves, each more palpable than the last, as if left to its own device, the frustration would manifest into real tumbling crests and troughs, ready to pull John under into a riptide, a whirlpool, drowning him in this rage. 

What the hell had John ever done to deserve such hate? 

***

Martha- Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been in when John arrived. In fact, neither had Sherlock. So much for a guardian. Mycroft’s henchmen had gotten the call that Sherlock was in a sulk and to let John in. 

John had been waiting for fifteen minutes, leaned against the door frame looking rather helpless, before deciding to head into the café, Speedy’s, next door to grab a drink, or snack- something, anything to keep his hands busy- while he waited. 

“What’ll you have son?” An elderly gentlemen behind the register inquired, very friendly-like. 

John hadn’t realized that the wait in front of him had come and gone. Not knowing what to order he responded, “Coffee, black. Thanks.” 

“That’ll be 2.50. Cream and sugar are on the counter, if you’d like.” 

“Ah, thanks.” John forced a smile, searching through his rucksack for his wallet. After retrieving the old, leather bound case, he went for the cash when a hand caught his wrist, keeping it steady, frozen. 

“He’ll be on Mr. Holmes’ tab from now on.” An intimidatingly low-voiced man bellowed. 

“O-Of course, sir.” The elderly bartender nodded, frail body shaking. 

John looked up at the man who was currently towering over him and blinked. “You a friend of Sherlock’s?” 

The man looked down, a smirk on his lips. “Not exactly. Mycroft Holmes sent me to escort you to your new living quarters. My men are inside, unpacking your things as we speak.” 

“Oh?” 

Taking the bag from John, the man inquired, “Would you like your coffee here or can you drink and walk?" 

“Walking’s fine.” 

The man, dressed in all black, the gun tucked into the back of his trousers, even under the shirt, stuck out, an obvious warning. “Come on, then.” 

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson? She still lives here, right?” 

"At her sisters for the weekend, up in Ashen.” 

“Perfect.” John muttered to himself before speaking up once more. “And Sherlock?” 

“He’ll be on his way shortly. Or not.” 

_That’s helpful._

“Mycroft called ahead to have us let you in. He said he’d be calling back shortly, but-” The stranger’s phone managed to ring once before he answered the call. “Sir.” He paused for a beat. “Yes, sir. The boy has been collected, as requested.” Another beat. “Yes, sir, taking him inside as we speak.” 

_Collected? That sounds entirely unthreatening. Totally not worrisome in the least._

The tall stranger opened the now unlocked door to 221B, pushing the door open, and waited for John to enter. 

“He was at the café next door, sir.” The man’s jaw tensed. “Yes, already taken care of.” He glanced at John before passing the phone over per Mycroft’s instructions. 

John blinked at the phone before taking it in hand, pressing it to his ear. “Hello?” John fought the urge to add “sir” at the end. 

"Hello, John. It’s been quite a while since we last spoke.” That posh, better-than-thou tone was more prevalent in John’s eldest uncle than he remembered- though it truly had been quite a while. 

John didn’t know how to respond, so he grunted a “yes.” 

“I’ve had keys made for you. They will be on the key ring to your left when you enter the flat. Your clothes and personal items have all been taken to the bedroom on the third floor.” 

Two men, more strangers, made their way down from 221B. The first man, taller than the others, handed off his bag, muttered something angrily, and sent the men back up into the flat.

“The... Third floor? So. I’ll be staying upstairs, then?” He audibly gulped, staring up the staircase. 

“Naturally.” 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to set me up in 221C instead?” John grimaced, taking his attention off the ominous staircase to eye the door to the flat in question. 

“Nonsense. It’s terribly musty down there and the heater does little to dampen the cold during the night. No, 221B is big enough for the two of you. You needn’t worry.” Mycroft’s tone seemed too tense to come off as the least bit comforting. 

“When should I be expecting Sherlock then?” 

"Sherlock? Who knows? I suppose it’s best if he takes his time getting back, to cool off.” 

“Not pleased with the new living arrangement?” 

“I’d say just as pleased as you are.” Mycroft went silent; the quiet murmur of another drowned out the sounds of the city for a moment. “Ah, well, I’ve been informed I must be off. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. Goodbye for now, John.” 

“Nice talking to-” John’s pleasantries were cut off by the dial tone. “Right.” 

He handed the phone back to the strange crony who had handed it off to him and took his first step toward 221B. 

After managing the fourteen steps up to the flat with ease, John hoped the rest of his time spent behind the door would be just a much of a breeze. He knew it was only a pipe dream, but it was the only thing he had to hold on to.

John opened the door to 221B and took a step inside. He first recognized the ring of keys Mycroft had mentioned and pocketed them.  
The rest of the flat was... spotless. The scent of carpet cleaner mixed with the faint smell of cigarettes filled John's nose as he took in his new home. The furnishing looked dated, but it matched the building's architecture and feel. Hell, the only thing that really stood out was the rams head with headphones clamped to either side. Surely Sherlock idea of whimsy. John had imagined more chaos. Papers and boxes everywhere. Food forgotten, left to rot. A dead corpse sitting in one of the chairs. _Something._

John turned to the fireplace.

_Not a corpse._

John took the skull in hand, turning the specimen over in his palms, observing the nuances in the bone. He placed the skull back on the mantle, shaking his head.

_Of course my uncle would own a real human skull._

"What on earth do you morons think you're doing in my flat?!" 

Glad he had set the skull down, John flinched at the sudden break in silence.

He heard the yell clear through the walls and floorboards. He shook his head, swearing that he didn't just jump.

"Just following order's, sir." This time more muffled, but John could make out the owner this time- the tall stranger that picked him up from Speedy's. He reflexively looked at the cup, simply a prop to keep him from standing at the door any longer, now virtually forgotten. 

"Orders?" The was a harsh laugh. "Tell my pompous brother to keep his fat nose out of my business!"

_Brother? Oh Goody, the shouting man must be Sherlock. Big surprise there._

At a loss for what to do, John just stood, stalk still, feeling the floor vibrate with each angry stomp that brought Sherlock closer to him.

After the door to the flat swung open, the first thing out of Sherlock's mouth was in the form of another yell. "Mycroft! What in the bloody _hell_ did you do to my flat!?"


	3. Stroking a Lion's Ego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet after not seeing each other for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a total amateur at this but I'm giving it a go!  
> Bear with me!

Stuck in the cross hair. Hungry lion ready to pounce. Fight or flight, Watson.

" _You._ "

John frowned, taking a step back, reflex, watching the grown man fuming, towering before him. 

If not for his suit, crumpled from walking about the city, John guessed, the man would've looked entirely pristine, inhuman in his perfection, as if carved from stone by the hands of Bernini or Michelangelo. A sculpture made by the greats, reeking of cigarettes and the streets of London. 

The younger, far less intimidating version of Mycroft remained, glaring intently, ice for eyes. 

The kind of beauty- it continued to remind the boy of his art history studies. Images flashed before his eyes, inadvertent but not unwelcome.  
David and Daphne combined into one living being. 

One living being who looked as though he was contemplating the risk-verses-reward in relation to the murdering of John right where he stood.  
John instinctively took another blind step back, meeting the kitchen table as it dug slightly into the fabric of his jeans.

Spy 1, John had now decided to call him, walked calmly into the room, the tension seeming to sizzle away, replaced with something else, something John couldn't quite read. "Mycroft want's to remind you of your deal." That was all the man said before turning and taking his leave, the other worker bees following in his wake.

Regardless of whatever the cryptic message had meant, John was sure it saved him a load of hurt. 

His uncle seemed to morph into another man entirely, his posture and aurora now of a regular. As unassuming as any other stranger off the street. Harmless.

"Excuse me for my initial reaction. I understand my brother thought it would be best to tidy up the place before your arrival, but I would've preferred if he'd bothered to tell me before ridding my flat of all its belongings." John's uncle had also placed additional space between the two of them. His expression, exasperated bordering on angry, disappeared once he remembered him; he cooled it with an alarming grin- something of nightmares.

John could swear he felt his adrenaline glands open the floodgates. _Flight._

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists at his side, refusing to run like a coward, John instead tried to trip him up. "How'd you do that? And what'd you mean, all of its belongings?" John spared a glance around at the generously furnished flat. He couldn't imagine trying to stuff anything more without making the room cramped and cluttered.

"Do what?" His uncle allowed his annoyance to show- finally, an expression he didn't feel the need to school. "And I wasn't referring to furnishing. I had a rather generous amount of case files, boxes full of evidence to search through, in case- well, let's face it- _when_ I found whatever it was the Met missed during the initial sweep. Now, all of it, gone, to who knows where. All because some child had come to stay with me and Mycroft wanted to ensure that your first impression was a good one."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, that option went right out the window when I started searching my surroundings for something to protect myself with."

"Excuse me?" John swore he heard a bit of laughter escape the man's mouth. 

"Yes, _excuse_ you! Bloody well pouncing on me upon your arrival, screaming abuse straight at my face. Who does that?"

"What were you referring to when you asked, "how'd you do that?"" The man inquired after a beat, not noticing, not caring, about John's obvious distaste for his behavior just moments before.

"I-" John furrowed his brow, looking up at the man, trying to decide whether to answer or not. "You just- the way you flipped a switch and became a different person. It was automatic. It was-"

"Creepy? Robotic? Inhuman?" The younger Holmes supplied.

"Well, yes, I suppose," John chuckled a tiny bit, against his better judgment. "But I was going to say impressive."


	4. Dinner?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John avoid each other until one of them gets hungry enough to risk an interaction.

The younger Holmes had decided ignoring the boy would be the best course of action, considering.  
His silence did nothing to affect the strange feeling that followed him about the flat, but it didn't make it worse, so he refrained from taking further action.

If this was what living with another felt like, Sherlock was glad he had never acted on the impulse to get a flat share.

The boy, John- he muttered it under his breath before disappearing upstairs- wasn't terribly bothersome, to Sherlock's surprise. He didn't ask constant inane questions, he didn't bother Sherlock with attempts at idle chit-chat or small talk- in fact, he hadn't made another attempt to speak to Sherlock since his "freak out" that afternoon. Maybe his plan to get his flat back was going to work out sooner than even he had planned.

Mycroft's human puppets had, apparently, been instructed to move all "clutter" into Sherlock's bedroom. Out of spite, Sherlock took the time to bring every box, every file, every scrap of paper, and return them to their original place in the living room. He brought his microscope, slide case, beakers, along with anything and everything he might need to conduct the experiments he had backlogged, and laid them all out on the kitchen table. Once he was satisfied with the resurrection of his space, he returned to the experiment he'd been working on before the whole mess with Amery's son and Mycroft's ruddy interference. 

It was eight thirty-four when John finally spoke up, distracting Sherlock from the experiment that was currently fizzing under the microscope's lens.

"What's all this?" John peered around the flat, having completely transformed since he'd last been down.

"What the Yard dropped off Thursday. The things that were _supposed_ to be out here when I returned home this afternoon." Sherlock sniped. " _Would've_ been here, if Mycroft wasn't so bloody interested in messing with my affairs and controlling my every move."

"So these boxes are full of things taken from crime scenes, then?"

"Yes."

"Like, pictures, and bagged murder weapons?"

Sherlock sighed. "Pictures, yes. Along with a poorly faked suicide note. The letter was obviously written by a women- his wife, most likely. It's obvious, based on the handwriting and the overuse of adjectives. None of this would've been necessary," Sherlock gestured to the boxes, "if Lestrade had just waited an extra day without contaminating the area so I could examine the murder scene in person, but no, he had to follow protocol." Sherlock said it as if the concept was abhorrent.

"Wait- how did you get access to these? The police don't just hand over evidence to just anyone. Are you a cop?" John tried imagining his uncle in a uniform, following orders, and couldn't. 

"God no. I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world."

"And the police just trust you with all this information? Why would they think you could find the murderer if they couldn't?"

"Because they're morons. And no, most of the Yard is less inclined to do me any favors, Lestrade on the other hand, is willing to work with me."

"Did you say you had access to the crime scene?"

"Yes. I would've been there if not for that tedious dinner Mycroft made me attend. I loathe owing him favors."

"They let you on crime scenes." John blinked. "They seriously let you poke around dead bodies and the like?"

"I do what they can't. I observe, catalogue, and find them their culprits. When the Yard is at their wits end, which is always, they contact me."

"Why not just put you on retainer and have you come to them all, instead, if you're so good?" John countered, the whole thing sounding too far fetched.

"Because I only take cases that are seven's or higher."

"What?"

"I only take on cases that interest me. Otherwise, it's too easy. Let the police do their job when they can actually manage."

"How very considerate of you." John rolled his eyes. "So why'd Mycroft move all of it, anyway?" 

"First impressions." 

"Ah," Was all John said, which, for some reason, aggravated Sherlock. 

"This is how I work. Some see it as something to be cleaned, or hidden, but it works for me." He explained, his tone rather harsh.

"No, I get it. Organized chaos." The pads of John's fingertips danced thoughtlessly against one of the boxes. "Dad always bugged me about my lack of organizational skills when it came to homework- me leaving papers all about my room- but it didn't matter. I knew where everything was, and that was the only thing the mattered."

Sherlock considered this. He remembered Amery's visits to his dormitory when he was still enrolled at Oxford, the lectures he received on the importance of cleanliness.

"Uhm, Uncle Sher- I mean, Mr. Holmes, or, er… the reason I came down, well, I was just wondering if you were planning on having dinner, y'know, anytime soon."

 _That was an easy one._ "No."

"Oh." John was rubbing the crook of his left arm with his right thumb. 

_Comforting himself? Nervous? What does he have to be nervous about?_

John nodded once before turning to head back up the stairs.

"John," Sherlock called, not expecting for the boy to whip around with such excitement. He blinked, taken aback, before composing himself. "Call me Sherlock."

The boy's face moved a fraction, too far away to coax out the microexpression's meaning, but aware enough to catch it.

"Okay." John repeated the same parting ritual and once again went to turn back to the stairs.

"When's the last time you ate?"

Once again, John perked up at a relatively blasé question, something a physician might inquire, and yet it inspired such excitement. 

_How bored must he be? At least that's something I can relate to._

"The last time I… I had coffee before coming here, but besides that I haven't had the chance to, or the money, for that matter." John made a face.

"Your parents didn't send you here with any money?" Sherlock found that hard to believe. Amery adored the boy.

"They transferred it to my card, but since Mum did it in America, the bank thought the transaction was fraudulent and canceled it. Dad called, but there's nothing they can do until Monday."

Sherlock ignore his initial reaction to sneer at the thought of someone referring to his brother as "Dad," instead making a mental note to buy food- or at least have Mrs. Hudson restock the fridge once she returned. 

"You eat on a regular schedule then, excluding days when you're relocating?"

"Ah, yeah, I guess."

"I'll have to remember that," Sherlock muttered, taking the slide from its holder and bringing it to the sink. Letting the water run for a moment, he turned and caught the boy's eyes for the first time that evening. "How do you feel about Italian?"


	5. What's a Little Spat Between Strangers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get hostile at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is due to me procrastinating on my research paper for class!

**ANGELO'S**

"Don't bother ordering, Angelo will just make something else." Sherlock commented, looking out the window to his left, watching the crowds of people heading home, heading out.

"Ah, okay." John closed the menu, at a loss of what to do now that his distraction had been taken away. "Oh, about the money," John's face pinkened in response to his lack of funds. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get the money transferred to my card."

Sherlock waved his hand, brushing the thought away. "No need."

"But-"

"John, I understand your distaste for borrowing money, never mind handouts, because of your past. It must have taken quite a while for you to get used to Amery's ceaseless generosity, though it's obvious his gentle nature won you over eventually, but I'm nothing like my brother. I have no patience for pride or whatever moral standing you have that makes you reluctant to accept charity. I am your uncle and I am treating you to a meal. Just accept it." Sherlock collected both menus and held them out from the table, wrist cocked, cold eyes staring into John.

A waiter appeared, taking the menu's from Sherlock and then vanished without a word.

"Fine." John glowered, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. He realized that Sherlock wasn't one to argue with. Instead, he'd make it up to him some other way. John was rather confident the flat would be needing a good cleaning rather soon at the rate Sherlock's experiments were going.

"I'm going to be frank with you." Sherlock's tone alone caught John's attention. _Bad cop._ "I despise most social interactions. People are typically idiots and are nothing but an unavoidable bother." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Don't glare at me- it's true. I want to clarify; I'm putting up with this only for my brother's sake, not because I want you here by any means."

"It's not as if I asked for this."

"I know. You'd much rather stay at your house. Or with Mycroft, though him being a far second. I'll let you in on a little secret: Mycroft will set you up in an apartment close to your school, stock it with anything you could ever need or want along with a few of his employees to watch over you, make sure nothing unfortunate happens to you while your parents are away. All you have to do is ask."

John's brows pulled together, the frown staying in place. "If that's true, why didn't my parents mention it?"

"The decision was made without involving them. I thought it unnecessary to consult with them, seeing how your safety wouldn't be an issue and neither would your health."

John pursed his lips. "And you don't want my dad finding out you scared me off."

"That too."

The boy fiddled with his silverware for a moment before looking back up at his uncle. "So all I'd have to do is talk with Mycroft and we'd be rid of each other?"

"Yes."

"I think I'll stay at Baker Street. But thanks for letting me know." John sat up, lifting his chin, his posture throwing down the gauntlet, an act of war.

Sherlock leaned forward, fire in those blue, blue eyes, mouth poised with words to sting.

"Sherlock!" A large Italian man walked up to the table, a wide grin pulling at his lips, arms spread wide.

"Hello, Angelo." Sherlock let the tension momentarily leak into the tiling beneath him, putting on a smile for the man.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming by, I would've prepared something special in advance!" Angelo shook his head, then shifted his attentions to greet Sherlock's guest. "My, my, Sherlock." The man tutted, before offering a sly grin. "He sure is a young one. Definitely your type, though, eh?" Angelo boasted, sizing John up.

John hunched in on himself, face red, eyes staring into the glass of wine that had been placed before him.

"Angelo, meet my nephew, John Watson."

"Nephew? No! You mean to tell me Mr. Robot has had a wife and child this whole time?"

"Robot meaning Mycroft. Hmm." Sherlock muttered, slightly amused, thinking aloud. "Ah, no. I'm not sure if he's even capable." Angelo barked a laugh at this, hand on gut, throwing his head back. "No, my other brother."

"You've another brother besides Mr. Government?"

"Yes. Amery. The youngest." Sherlock picked up his glass of wine but didn't make an attempt to drink it. "He met John's mother at a gala celebrating a successful merger his company completed. She a server, he the main event. Convenient." The _t_ of convenient was nails on a chalkboard. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his thoughts about John's mother in the slightest.

"Lucky for your mother then, yes?" Angelo elbowed John, a smile still in place.

"Lucky for the both of them." John countered, his sour mood only worsening. "My father was miserable until he met her. Then they fell in love. He didn't care if she came from nothing, or that she was raising two kids on her own." John wanted to reach over the table and strangle Sherlock. How dare he imply his mother was some sort of gold digger. "I suppose not all of the Holmes family are robots. Maybe it skipped him. _Lucky._ " John bit out.

"Your father sounds like a good man, and a good brother, yes Sherlock?" Angelo was trying to stomp out the growing tension, which was admirable but fruitless.

"I've always considered Amery the best of us." Sherlock didn't embellish this time, instead opting for silence. 

"Well… I'll get your food started. It's on the house, of course. You let me know if you need anything." Angelo looked between the two of them, a nervous expression in place, before turning for the kitchen.

"You're an arse." John hissed, hands clenched tightly in his lap.

"You're a child."

"Jesus. You act like some genius who seems to know everything, but if you'd spent one minute with my father and mother, you'd know they love each other. Anyone could see it, even an idiot."

Sherlock swished the wine in the glass, the red threatening to breach the lip, before setting the glass back down, untouched. "I'm aware of this. I attended the wedding. I knew the moment Amery called me, his voice that of a lovesick bastard, singing her praises, about how I simply must meet this wonderful woman. I have no doubt that he loves her. Your mother definitely won him over- not that it would've been hard, Amery being the hopeless romantic that he is."

"So you admit it, and yet you still act as though my mother is some opportunistic leach out to exploit your brother, _my father_ , for his money. Why?"

Sherlock raised the glass, this time to his lips, his long white canvas of a neck stretching, contracting with each gulp until it was empty. "Because, I am an arse."

John leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He couldn't believe how absurd this evening had become. God, the man before he was the strangest person he'd ever met, bar none. John, despite himself, gave into the smile that was tugging at his mouth, and then, without warning, started to laugh.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, watching as the boy, who just seconds before was furious, enraged by knee-jerk protectiveness, began to laugh. As if a contagion that sparked irrational giddiness in people had been set loose, Sherlock felt the beginnings of a chuckle in his throat. His throat indulged the feeling, allowing an amused scoff to break through.

Soon, the both of them were laughing- at what they weren't sure. The ridiculousness of the situation? Maybe. Most likely.

After the laughter subsided, the table fell quiet. They both took turns indulging in the wine, refilling their glasses until the bottle was left empty. John, not a heavy drinker- a result of his biological father, both he and Sherlock had concluded- was feeling _something_. His head felt light, his limbs felt heavy. His uncle didn't seem as annoying anymore. 

_Yes, definitely feeling something._

It took John a moment to focus his eyes on the figure standing before the table.

"One of my servers told me he saw you both laughing? This is true?" Angelo remained nervous, setting the identical plates down before them.

Sherlock offered a curt nod, sparing a glance for John, then down at his food. "This looks delicious, Angelo. Thank you."

John agreed but didn't trust himself to speak.

"It was my pleasure, as always. I'll grab a box for your leftovers, Sherlock. Don't leave it here this time." Angelo set a to-go box and bag at the table's edge. "I'm glad the two of you seem to be getting on better. You two enjoy your meals. And I'll have Angie replenish your wine." 

Sherlock gave the plump man an expression that lasted only a second. but the message was received.

"Two waters coming up."

"Eat." Sherlock instructed.

John's glance flickered up to Sherlock, catching the look of concern right before the man's face return to its default expression, indifferent. He cut into the chicken breast covered in a layer of sauce and herbs, swearing that he was eating strictly because he was starving. That it had nothing to do with that look and _especially_ nothing to do with the command.


	6. A Good Time For Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John rides his hangover out on the couch, leaving his room unattended.

**221B BAKERSTREET**

Sherlock leaned against the frame of his bedroom door, head and shoulder against the wood. "You're still here."

"I don't exactly have anywhere else to go."

"I meant on the couch. And if you recall our conversation from last night, you do."

"Which conversation was that? The one where you implied my mother was a whore? Or the one where you disregarded my wish to pay you back for a meal, or?" John sat up, his hands immediately clapping on each side of his head, though it did nothing to dampen the pounding. He flattened back against the couch, praying for the vertigo to pass.

"Don't be tedious." Sherlock backed off the door, tightening the string of his dressing gown around his skeleton, and headed into the kitchen.

After preparing the kettle, Sherlock searched through the cabinets, searching for the bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock shuffled back into his bedroom, lifting the bedside lamp and removing the false bottom, retrieving a morphine tablet from his stash.

At the kettle's whistle, Sherlock made the short trip back, taking the steaming tea off the burner.

"Here." Sherlock stacked a group of files together, tossing them on his chair, and placed a mug of tea along with half of the tablet onto the clearing on the table.

John, facing the couch's cushions, only grunted in response, hands still flat against his ears.

Sherlock knelt beside the boy, contemplating whether or not to rest a hand on his shoulder. Physical contact was supposed to be comforting in most cases. He decided against it. "I made you tea. And brought you half of a morphine tablet for the headache."

"Morphine?" John rolled over, face scrunched up. "Couldn't find anything, I dunno, less addictive to give me?" Once he opened his eyes fully, his head retracted back into the cushion behind him, shocked by the closeness.

"Don’t be dramatic." Sherlock leaned back and popped the other half in his mouth, swallowing it down with his tea. "I looked for something weaker, but no dice."

John eyed the tablet. "Remind me." He said before following Sherlock's example.

"Of?"

"I've been jotting down things to get when I make a trip to Tesco."

Sherlock nodded and stood up, leaving John to rest.

Sherlock found the list easily, first drawer of the desk in John's room- his old office that, granted, he only used for storage. He realized he hadn't been inside the room since the arrival of John's belonging, not that a chance has arisen, what with John hiding out behind the locked door to avoid any awkward encounters. It wasn't anything impressive. Most of John's belongings remained in his house- rugby trophies, surely, still on their respective shelfs, posters still on the walls of his bedroom. These walls were empty, temporary. The sheets on the bed were probably even a spare pair pulled out from storage, the ones he slept on nightly before being forced across London still tucked into the mattress at the boy's actual home. Sherlock bent over the bed, inhaling. The pillow case still held the smell of the plastic casing. Sherlock swiped the imprint he'd left from baring his weight on the comforter, smoothing it over with the same hand that had created it.  
He searched the rest of the room. Closet full of unassuming clothes, drawers of the vanity stocked with socks, pants, trousers. Nothing particularly interesting. The trash bin contained plastic wrap from unpacking, a broken hanger, and a tissue.

Sherlock added paracetamol in his quick script- so different from John's careful block letters. If John pursued a career in the medical profession, this precision would should disappear. Sherlock felt the urge to take the list, hide it somewhere so he could compare the changes in John's writing over the years. He opened the drawer and placed the scrap of paper back where it belonged.

Following some alien impulse, Sherlock laid down on the bed that smelled nothing of John, not satisfying whatever it was his mind had been striving for. He stood back up, feeling awkward- not something he felt often, not a feeling he'd like to have repeated- uneasy even.

He once again smoothed the comforter and left the room, a humming in the back of his mind.

The morphine would be kicking in soon.


	7. Waking Up Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to an empty flat.

When John woke, the flat was silent. The lights coming from the windows were emanating from the street lights, the sky now dark. He sat up, swinging his legs around, his feet touching the cool flooring. John ran his fingers over the knit blanket that was scrunched up in his lap, trying to remember anything after the argument at the restaurant the night prior. The vague memory of a conversation with Sherlock, turning around at the mention of water and finding the mythical features of his uncles face so close to his. After plucking at the frayed edges of the blanket, lost in thought, he realized Sherlock must've covered him with during his long nap and his face heated. 

John shoved the thing off onto the empty cushion beside him. He must've been a hassle to get back into the flat- why did he drink so much?  
And why had Sherlock bothered getting the medicine from him if he hated John so much? Why the blanket? 

John shook his head, wanting to stop the train of thought before being engulfed. John noticed the boxes were no longer taking over the room, all gone, along with most of the files that had been strewn across any surface that would hold them. 

He stood, folding the cloth and leaving it on the armrest before peering around the dark room. No one seemed to be in the living room or kitchen. John risked a peak in Sherlock's room but found it empty as well. He turned to leave, but instead he widened the crack of the door, letting the little light from living room windows illuminate the room. It looked how the flat had when Mycroft's men cleaned it just a day before. The room was spotless, simple, no knick-knacks or memorabilia to clutter the dresser or vanity. The only thing hinting at the rooms owner was the framed poster of the periodic table. John's fingers tapped against the door before shutting it closed.

He called his uncle's name but received silence in response.

Finding his jacket resting on the back of one of the chairs by the fireplace, he reached into its pocket, retrieving his phone.

_Four Text Messages, One Missed Call, One Voice Mail_

Harry:  
How's living with a sociopath? Find any dead bodies lying about?  
John:  
That'd be a psychopath, Harry. And no, no bodies. Yet.  
It's been interesting. Not necessarily a good thing though.

Mum:  
Hey sweetheart! Call me when you get the chance, love you!

Dad:  
Hey kiddo, how was the move? Hope Sherlock's behaving.

BANK INFO UPDATE:  
Amery Holmes has successfully transferred $1,000 to John Watson's account. Contact 1800-457-9547 if any issues arise.

Missed Call: Mum

Voice Mail: Mum

John pressed play, holding the phone to his ear.

"Hey hon, I was just calling to check in and let you know Amery wired you the money. Just let us know when you'll be needing more. New York is wonderful as always. We had the most delicious dinner with Amery's associates and, oh, the apartment is absolutely perfect. You'd love the view. Don't be angry, but when you didn't answer either of our texts, Amery called Sherlock. He said you were fine but feeling a tad under the weather, poor thing! I hope you feel better by Monday! Anyway, I'm getting ready for bed. Call me when you can. Love you!" 

John > Mum:  
Hey Mum, I'll make sure to call you after school tomorrow. Glad you're having a good time. Tell Dad hey for me. 

After locking the screen, John's eyes winced at the returning darkness. He flip on two of the lamps and stood in the middle of the open space, feeling awkward in his new home.

John trudged up the staircase leading to his room and closed the door behind him. The pounding in his head had decreased substantially, instead being replaced with a gnawing feeling in his stomach. Another day of not eating.

John stripped down to nothing, tossing his clothes in the corner of his room, making a mental note to pick up a laundry basket. He changed into another pair of jeans and pulled a jumper over his head. He shrugged into his preferred boots as well as grabbing the set of keys and his wallet before exiting the room.

He turned the lights off, grabbing his jacket and phone. About to leave, his did a double take. He scribbled a note letting Sherlock know he'd be gone for a few hours, his number at the bottom, just in case he came back before John.

"John?"

"Hey Sarah," John smiled at her voice answering the call, as he locked the door to 221B behind him. "Wanna grab a bite to eat?"


	8. Uncomfortable Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't catch a break at school

**JOHN'S SCHOOL**

"So, how's the new living situation?" Andy asked, face cupped in his hands, elbows digging into the desk.

"Do the assignment." John gestured at the ignored papers with his pencil before going back to his own work.

"That bad, huh?" Andy's dumb grin irked John, already not in the best of moods.

"My uncle's an arse, the flats a dump, and I have to wake up forty minutes earlier to get here on time. No, the move's been great." John rolled his eyes, plugging an equation into his calculator.

"I still don't get why you had to move. Your parent's leave you at home for months on end all the time, why's this any different?"

"Who knows. It doesn't matter."

Andy tried a different angle. "So, what's he like?"

"He's insane. One minute he's screaming, the next he's bringing me medicine and tea. I've got no clue what he's about."

"Medicine?" Andy shoved his desk back, the metal screeching against tile. "You got a cold? Because if you do, you need to stay clear. I can't afford to get sick with this test coming up." He held up his hands, crossing two fingers to make an "x."

"No, he- he got me drunk. The medicine was for the resulting hangover."

Andy laughed, scooting back up in the row. "I wish I had an uncle willing to buy me alcohol. He can't be _that_ bad."

"It wasn't like that." John huffed a sigh. "It's complicated. He took me to dinner and basically spent the whole time insulting me, trying to get me to move out, and then, somehow we," John pinched his brows together. "We started laughing. It doesn't make any sense, but we just… started… laughing." John ran his hand through his hair, eye squinting. "I guess it was because we were going back and forth, y'know, like children, both of us knowing it would get us nowhere, and then we realized how ridiculous it was."

Andy looked up from doodling nonsense on his calculus notes. "You were laughing _because_ you were fighting?"

"Yeah."

"You're right. That doesn't make sense."

The bell rang and students started packing their books into the bags and standing up to leave.

"Okay, class. Remember: test this Friday. Study hard." Mr. Bennet waved them off.

John swung his bag over his shoulder, following Andy out the door. "Like I said, he's insane. And I'm the one who started laughing first, so I guess I'm insane too."

Andy clapped his back. "Well, I already knew that, it didn't I?"

John gave him a look before turning to open his locker. "After that, we sat in silence, finishing a bottle of wine, just for something to do. I think I ended up having more of my fair share because I blacked out."

"Off of one bottle?" Andy leaned his shoulder against the wall of lockers.

"Yeah, weird, right?" John shoved his math book into his locker, replacing it with AP Econ and zipping up his bag. "Need to go to yours?"

"I'll go after lunch." Andy shook his head, starting toward the cafeteria. "You sure he didn't drug you?" He joked. 

"I wouldn't be surprised if he did, just to shut me up, or something." John stopped in his tracks, a look of realization morphing into aggravation. "In fact, I wouldn't put it past him in the slightest."

"Wait, seriously?"

John ground his teeth together and resumed walking.

"And your parents trusted him to watch you?"

"My dad does, yeah."

"This isn't the same uncle who set your face on fire while his was high on heroin, right?"

"It might've been cocaine. I heard he dabbled. Yes, he's that one." John paused. "But, to be fair, he didn't do the setting-me-on-fire thing. Not directly. He just forgot to turn off the Bunsen burner from an experiment he was working on and… I was a curious kid. The solution in the beaker, whatever it was, got too hot, and I was watching it when it exploded."

"So he didn't take a flame to your face, sure, but it was still his fault."

John rubbed his forehead. "Whatever, I'm not really in the mood to play the blame game. He was young and bored." He grabbed a tray and fell into line with the rest of the students.

Andy followed suit, face pinched, incredulous. "Bored? That's an excuse for getting high while watching a kid?"

"He's insane- but he's also a genius." John paused to give the lunch lady his order; after typing his ID into the pad, he turned back to Andy. "He's one of those "my IQ is so much higher than everyone else that I can't stand to be around them because, to me, they're all morons" kinds of people that you only see on TV shows. Hell, my dad is an idiot compared to him, and he's one of the smartest people I know."

"Your point?"

"My point is, he just didn't want to be bored anymore," John spoke while Andy recited his order. "And the drugs, they were a distraction. I'm not saying what he did was okay, hell, if I saw him shooting up I'd soundly kick his ass, but I understand why he did it. Besides, junkies can't really help themselves. He wasn't thinking rationally."

"Thanks," Andy smiled at the women at the cash register. "Have a nice day." He looked at John from the corner of his eye. "I don't know why you always feel the need to forgive everyone."

"I don't forgive everyone." John sat down at their usual table.

"Yes, you do." Andy sat across from him, cracking the seal of his soda. "Clara Walter's? She cheated on you with two other kids on the rugby team and what did you do? You broke up with her, saying "no hard feelings." I mean, who does that?"

"Whatever, Andy." John bit into the slice of pizza and nodded in greeting to Trey and Adam as they joined them at the table. "Just drop it."

"Drop what?" Adam asked.

"Ah, nothing. Just teasing John about not being able to pull Sarah yet." Andy feigned a grin.

"Seriously, Watson, you've been with this girl for how long?" Trey shook his head.

"At least a few months now. I starting to think you're just her beard until she makes it to college." Adams offered.

"That's very nice." John rolled his eyes. "I'm sure I wouldn't be able to tell if I was dating a lesbian. Thanks for the assessment on my intelligence."

"Hey man, it happens." Adam shrugged, biting into his sandwich. "Try and score, and if she doesn't come through, cut her loose so she can be free to munch on all the pussy she'd like. You'd be doing her a favor."

Andy grinned at the others, but the expression on his face when he looked to John was something entirely different. 

"Once again, very nice." John shook his head and switch topics to the upcoming exams.

"Hey Watson, you coming to the study session?"

John turned to his right, Ryan James now sitting beside him.

John tried to catch up. "Study group?"

"Facebook? The AP Calc 2 group? A few of us are meeting up to prepare for the big test. You were invited a few days ago, but you didn't click yes or no. So I thought I'd come by and see." He clarified.

"Yeah, uh, I haven't been on in a while. When is it?"

"This Thursday, after school."

"I didn't think you were in Calc 2." John didn't mean for it to come out as an accusation.

Ryan stood up, his hand brushing Johns shoulder as he passed. Looking over his shoulder, a smirk on his face, Ryan called. "Let me know about Thursday."

"Hey, you close with Ryan?" Adam asked, his voice conspiratory.

"Ah," John laughed at his friend, crouched over, his covering the side of his mouth. "Not really, no. Why?"

"I'd steer clear, then. Seems like he's got a lot of ties with dealers, which it cool if you want to score some bud, but not the best type of guy to keep around as a friend."

"Right, got it. Stay away from the big bad drug dealer." John took another bite of his food, looking up as a few more of his rugby mates joined the group.


	9. Just Chatting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks with his parents about the past two days.

**THE STREETS OF LONDON**

John had called his mother on the walk to the underground like he'd promised. 

She sounded happy, although this wasn't anything out of the ordinary. 

She asked a thousand questions: how was the flat, was the commute to school okay, was he getting on with Sherlock, whether he was feeling any better, if Mrs. Hudson was as sweet as she recalled.

John kept his responses short, especially any concerning Sherlock. He also mentioned that Mrs. Hudson was away at her sisters for the time being. 

Once she was satisfied that he was doing well, she passed the phone over.

"Johnny?" 

John smiled to himself, it was good to hear his dad's voice.

"Hey, thanks for the money, but don't you think that's a bit much?"

"You're responsible. I trust you not to waste it on things you don't need."

"Well, thanks." John bit at the inside of his cheek, glancing at the passengers surrounding him.

"So. How are things really going?"

_His dad always, always knew. Damnit!_

"What?" He feigned ignorance- poorly.

"Your mother isn't breathing fire, actually seems pretty pleased with the arrangement she set up for you, so I'm guessing you couched it for her. So, what really happened over the weekend?"

John scratched at the fabric of his backpack's strap, contemplating what to divulge.

"He's… interesting."

"So are explosions."

The corner of John lip twitched. "Yeah, exactly." He frowned soon after, not a fan of complaining, but not a fan of lying, either. "I- It's been fine. He was, uh, for a lack of better words, a bit of a jackass on Saturday. But, really, I'm fine."

"Only on Saturday?" John's father sounded surprised.

"Well, he wasn't around much Sunday."

"Ah,"

"He wasn't there when I got to the flat on Saturday, instead one of Mycroft's men let me in. A bunch of other men in suits were there, moving my stuff into the flat. When Sherlock got back he, uh, started screaming."

"Why's that?"

"Well, from what I can tell, he's not Mycroft's biggest fan, so seeing his workers invading his home was enough to piss him off. Walking in to see that all of his things had been removed only made it worse, which was when he started yelling at me."

"At you? For Mycroft moving his things?"

"Yeah, said Mycroft only did it to make a good first impression on me."

His father sighed. "I don't know why my brother tries. He knows Sherlock would ruin any chance of that the moment he arrived. And he did, yeah?"

"Pretty much." John worried the inside of his mouth some more. "But then one of the men said something to Sherlock and he calmed down in mere seconds."

"That's unlike him. What did the man say?"

John stepped onto the platform, leaving the car, walking up the steps leading to the cool London air. "Something about an agreement with Mycroft. It was really quick. I was just glad he didn't deck me."

"Sherlock's not much for senseless violence. I wouldn't worry about that." John's father paused for a moment. "Anything else happen?"

"I hid in my room for the rest of the day, getting homework out of the way." John held his breath, weighing the pros and cons of telling his father about the rest of the night. 

As if reading it in the silence, his dad spoke. "Sounds like you didn’t have any time to eat. I know Sherlock's not one for keeping food around the house, and with Mrs. Hudson gone, I'm sure the kitchen was rather empty. What'd you do for food?"

John frowned; he really never could get anything past his dad." Sherlock took me out to an Italian restaurant."

"Ah, Angelo's?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"He frequents the joint because he gets his meals for free."

"How come?"

"He discredited the police's original assumption that Angelo murdered someone several years back by proving Angelo was across town robbing a flat with his brother."

"His cleared Angelo's name?"

"I cleared it a bit." The baritone voice from behind drowned out his father's response.

John whipped around, holding his phone at his side. "Are you following me?" 

"No. Just heading in the same direction as you."

John looked at the man, wearing the same clothes he'd last seen him in, stubble on his face, his dark curls more messy than usual. "You stay at a girlfriend's last night?"

Both Sherlock and John's father laughed at this.

John grimaced, lifting the phone back to his ear. "I'll call you back, okay?"

"Bye, John." The smile in his father's voice was apparent.

John hung up and pocketed the phone. "Boyfriend's, then?"

"I was finishing up the wife-murderer case at the Yard. Lestrade was very adamant about filing the paperwork, despite the lateness of the hour. Then I went to stake out a shipping yard where I believed the smuggling of illegal goods was taking place. I was correct, of course. Lestrade's superiors will be glad to hear two cold cases were solved within days of me on them, I'm sure." Sherlock's voice told John the opposite was true. "My reminding him that he could keep my name out of it, take the credit for himself, did nothing to keep him from making me say for yet _another_ statement. Tedious." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Whoa," John finally took in his uncle's appearance, instinctively reaching out, his hand almost touching the man's face. "You alright?"

"How do you mean?" Sherlock took a measured step back.

"Your eye. And lip."

Sherlock touched the pad of his long index finger to the blood that had hardened and cracked on his lower lip. 

"The wife get a few swings in?" John tried for a joke, retracting his hand.

"No, that would be the smugglers. I caught them, like I said, even took a few of them down, but there were more men at the site then I'd expected."

"Wait- you went there alone?"

"Of course. I texted Lestrade when I was certain he could make the arrests, but, unfortunately, soon after I was noticed."

"You shouldn't be doing that- going off on your own! You could've gotten yourself killed!"

"I was perfectly aware of the possible outcomes." The man said, as if it was like any other day for him.

John shook his head and turned, heading back to 221B.


	10. Thai Food And Embarrassing John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John offers to order Thai and Sherlock calls John out on something rather private.

**221B**

"You're an arse, you know that?" John stopped pacing the lenght of the flat when Sherlock finally joined him.

"I believe you've informed me of this, yes."

"Who runs off alone to a bloody smuggling ring?"

"Someone who is trying to catch said smugglers."

"That's the police's job! And you know what police officers do? They travel with a partner. The buddy system, Sherlock. You learn about it in grade school. That way, you have someone around to watch you back, make sure you don't get yourself killed."

"And just who do you know that's willing to drop whatever they're doing to go to a shipping yard where the possibility of death is rather high?" Sherlock looked bored of the conversation already. 

"I'm sure one of Mycroft's men would tag along."

"I don't take favors from Mycroft. Besides, they're all incompetent."

_What a stubborn arse._

"God, what is with you two? It's beyond childish the way you behave."

"This conversation is beyond childish. I don't need anyone."

"Says the man that would've been beaten to death and had his body dumped in some shipping container if the police hadn't shown up in time." John waved his hand up in the direction of his uncles face before walking into the kitchen and grabbing the note he'd written last night. 

He begrudgingly offered it to the man.

"What's this?" Sherlock's eyes skimmed over the paper. "Okay, you went out last night. You don't need to ask my permission, or tell me for that matter. I'm not your parent."

"My number." John clarified. "Put it in your phone and use it if you're ever about to do something stupid like that again."

"Did you stay over at a girlfriend's last night?" Sherlock could've given John whiplash with a segway like that.

"What? _No __."_

"You don't need to lie, John."

"I'm not. I went to see Sarah, yes, but I came home. Unlike someone." John muttered the last sentiment before getting back to the original conversation. "Like I said, call me and I'll be your back up."

"I prefer to text." And with that, Sherlock pulled out his phone, typed something up quickly, and pocketed it again.

"Whatever, that's not the point. I'd rather make sure you don't die on me then go to school well rested." 

John's phone dinged. He checked the screen.

SH:  
I'll think about it. -SH

John looked back at the insane man before him. "How'd you program your number in my phone?"

"I had plenty of opportunities. When you were drunk on Saturday." John blushed at the mention of his lack of control. "When you were sleeping off the hangover the following day. When you took a shower this morning. You leave your phone unattended more than the regular person."

"I don't have anything to hide."

"No, you don't."

For some reason, the comment sounded like an insult to John.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment. He opened his mouth, then shut it, instead leaving for the kitchen, reaching for his microscope.

"Mrs. Hudson will be coming back in two days." Sherlock spoke, looking through his collection of slides. "I suggested ordering take-out in the meantime. There are menu's in the drawer closest to the refrigerator. And my cards on my desk."

"That's okay, you paid last time." John grinned, pleased an opportunity to even the playing field hand shown up so quickly.

"No, the meal was free."

"The principal." John muttered, shuffling through the menus. "Like Asian, then?"

"I'm sure you could find something else on your phone."

"No, Asian's good. How about Thai? I see you've circled a few things here." John lifted the flyer.

"Whatever you prefer."

"I'll call it in around six, then? Or have you not eaten yet today?"

"I'm fine."

"Six it is. I'm gonna go do my homework." John got to the stairs before looking back. "I was serious about what I said."

"I know." Sherlock said into the microscope.

**JOHN'S ROOM**

Sarah:  
Hey, what are you up to?

John:  
Calc.  
End it now. Put me out of my misery.

Sarah:  
Only a few more months and you'll be done.

John:  
And then exams.

Sarah:  
And then college.

John:  
Okay, so new topic?

Sarah:  
I thought you were excited for med school?

John:  
I am. Just makes me anxious.  
Talking about it.

Sarah:  
You've got the highest marks in all your classes, John. You've nothing to worry about.

John:  
Still.

Sarah:  
So, sticking with the new topic idea: how's the new living situation? You didn't really say anything at school.

John:  
It's weird. My uncle's insufferable one minute and, well, sort of tolerable the next.

Sarah:  
How so?

John:  
I dunno. He's the biggest arse. He puts his life at risk for no reason. He acts like his life means nothing. It's just- I find it aggravating for some reason. Also, he's a pompous know-it-all.

Sarah:  
Sounds like a real winner.

John:  
Really.

Sarah:  
Did you want to get dinner again? Last night was fun.

John:  
It was, but I already said I'd get take-out.  
Wait- how do you feel about Thai?

Sarah:  
Me and Thai are cool.

John:  
Wanna come over? I know I didn't really make the place sound too inviting, but maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be on good he best behavior for a guest.

Sarah:  
Sure, when should I head over?

John:  
I'll stop by your place when I pick it up. I'm calling it in at 6 so I'll be at yours around 6:15. That OK for you?

Sarah:  
Sounds perfect. See you then. In the meantime, go crush some Calc.

John:  
Will do!

When it was getting close to six, John walked down the stairs, taking each step with care, feeling as though cautious was the best approach.

"Sherlock?" He called, heading for the kitchen, but stopping at the couch.

"No, I don't mind." Sherlock muttered.

John's uncle was laying down on the couch, hands pressed together, brought up under his chin.

"You-?"

"I don't mind if your friend comes over. Just don't be too loud."

""Don't be"- you don't mean- because she's just coming over for-" John stopped, watching Sherlock rise from the couch and stalk toward him.

"You’re a virgin."

"What? W-what you would make you say something like that?" John's face flushed a beat red.

"Because every time anything concerning sex, or implying sex, comes up, you get defensive and flustered." The man cocked his head, smirking. "It's almost… endearing. Innocent."

John stared for a moment before speaking. "I'm going to order the food now." Turning his attention to the phone. 

"Why?" Sherlock pushed. "You're a good looking young man. Grade twelve. I'm sure you could have your pick of the girls at that school of yours, and yet you've decided to date the only girl that won't satisfy that particular need."

John looked up from the screen, annoyed. "And why would you say that?"

"That Sarah girl, the one you've been seeing. She's asexual. Perfectly content with hand holding and, yes, even kissing, but you won't get any further." Sherlock's head cocked again, his eyes examining John. "But you know that already, don't you. She probably doesn't even realize it yet herself, but you have. _Interesting_."

"You've never even met Sarah, how could you possibly know any of that?"

"You." Sherlock's eyes flickered from John's eyes to his lips, then down to the menu. "If you don't leave soon, you'll be late picking up your girlfriend." 

John caught a glimpse of the smirk on Sherlock's face as he went back over to the couch.


	11. Date Night for Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective's mind wanders. Sarah meets Sherlock, despite John's solicitudes.

Sherlock remained on the couch after John's departure, cataloging and reviewing the few times he'd seen John blush. Embarrassing the boy seemed to bring him pleasure unlike anything else. Watching the blood rush to his cheeks because of something Sherlock said- it gave him a sense of power. Dominance. The ability to affect him- and so easily, too. The boy felt everything so intensely. Anger, embarrassment, joy.

He had yet to see sadness or fear, wondered if provoking such feelings, rather than waiting for them to occur naturally in his presence, would be crossing some line.  
Although, Sherlock was all for crossing lines.

 

It was six forty-five when John returned to 221B with Sarah in tow.

"So, this is it." John smiled weakly. "The landlady lives through there, and I live right up those stairs."

"Cool. Anyone live in the other flat?"

"Not at this moment, no." John turned, his expression serious. "Now I've got to warn you, Sherlock can be unpleasant when he's acting his best, so just ignore him, okay?"

"It's going to be fine, John." Sarah leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. "Now, lead the way."

John nodded, trudging up the steps, praying for Sherlock to have been called away by Mycroft or that Lestrade fellow.

"Ah," John paused, bags in hand, having led Sarah through the entry into the kitchen, looking for an empty place to set them but finding not a single space on the table, currently covered with Sherlock's lab equipment.

Sherlock, who had yet to bother with greetings, uncrossed his legs, removing them from the settee. "Get trays and sit here." He approached John, taking the bags and putting them where his feet just were.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I'm Sarah Sawyer." Sarah smiled, offering her hand out.

"It's Sherlock." John's uncle said, glancing at the hand and declining without a word. "I'll be heading out soon. Don't know for how long." He went to his desk, flipping through a file. "Don't bother waiting up."

She brought her arm back down in an awkward fashion but shook off the rejection rather well.

"Told you he's a right arse." John muttered, fetching the two of them trays and bowls to eat off of.

"Shh!" Sarah hushed John.

"Anything to drink?" John offered, then faltered. "Shite. Actually, since Sherlock doesn't do any shopping, all we've got is tap. That alright?"

"Yes, that's fine."

After setting them up at the table and handing Sarah the remote, instructing her to pick whatever looked interesting, John went over to Sherlock, who was now scrolling through something on a laptop.  
John's laptop.

"Hey," He hissed, shutting it closed, almost catching Sherlock's fingers in the process. "Do you mind?"

"What's a Tumblr?"

"Piss off! You've a laptop of your own yes?"

"Mine in my bedroom."

"So was mine! Until you broke into my room and stole it!" John yell-whispered.

"You can't break into your own home." Sherlock countered.

"How did you even- it's password protected."

"Not exactly Fort Knox." Sherlock muttered.

"You've got to be bloody- don't go through my things."

"I'm a concerned uncle."

"Not bloody likely. You're a curious bastard." John inhaled loudly, trying to calm himself. "You said you were going out. Not to another stake out, I hope."

"No, not tonight. I'm heading over to Bart's."

"Bart's? You mean the hospital?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Molly said she had an interesting corpse waiting for me in the morgue."

"Corpse? Morgue?" John's head felt like it was spinning. 

"You heard me correctly."

"You know what, I don't want to know. I'm gonna have a sit-in with my girlfriend and my uncle is going to visit a morgue. Great." John went to join Sarah on the couch but then doubled back, grabbing his laptop.

"I was right. She is asexual." Sherlock boasted, rather smug.

"Piss off. And stop analyzing my girlfriend."

"What? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Piss. Off." John hissed and turned to face a very confused looking Sarah.

Sitting beside her, offering a tight smile, John leaned over to dish out some food onto his plate.

"What was that all about?" She glanced at the laptop that was now resting on the other side of John on the couch.

"Just my uncle being a righteous prick as always." John glared, not bothering to keep his volume down.

A moment later, John cell dinged.

SH:  
I'd watch the language. She's a big believer in respecting your elders. -SH

Sherlock smirked at John's fuming expression as he walked by, retrieving his jacket and hooking his scarf around his neck. Without a word, Sherlock opened the door to the flat, and closed it behind him.

"So, what are we watching?" John smiled genuinely this time, looking over to Sarah.


	12. Two In The Fucking Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock accidentally wakes John up. This makes John rather cross, seeing how it's two am on a school night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! There's sex in this chapter, all ye who enter do so at their own risk!  
> Possible letdown: it's not between Sherlock and John (yet).

John woke up to the sound of a door slamming shut downstairs.  
He wondered if Sherlock was in a rush or just throwing some sort of fit. He stretched, throwing his arms into the air, groaning at the feeling of his back cracking.

He tapped the screen of his phone and felt an immediate surge of annoyance flow through his veins.

 _Who stays at a bloody morgue until two in the morning? At least have the courtesy to be quiet about it when you_ know _someone else has to wake up in four hours for school!_

John shuffled out of bed, ignoring the chills sent up his spine as the touch of the cold ground, making his way down the stairs, ready to give his uncle a piece of his mind.

He furrowed his brow at the sound of two voices- one definitely Sherlock's, but the other was unknown- maybe it was that Molly woman he mentioned. John just then realized that even though he lived with the man, he didn't really know him, or the people he surrounded himself with.

"Come on, I came into town just to see you." It was a man's voice, hushed and out of breath.

_Okay, so definitely not a Molly._

John peered around the wall, still standing on the last step.

Sherlock was pinned against the door, the stranger making him appear short, which was definitely different.

"Well, you've seen me." Sherlock sounded almost bored, as if being cornered by others was the norm.

"No, I want to see all of you." John bit back a gasp as the man leaned in, pressing his lips to the skin of Sherlock's neck. "God, it's been a while, hasn't it?" John watched as the man ran his hand through Sherlock's curls, as he inhaled the scent of his skin.

"Two years." Sherlock's voice wavered slightly.

"Keeping track are we? Don't tell me you missed me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. The whole genius with a near perfect memory thing can't exactly be turned off and on."

"Ah, right." The man was smiling, John could hear it in his voice. "I'm sure that's it."

"I can't indulged you whenever you decide to drop by, Victor."

"And why's that?"

"For one, my nephew is currently sleeping upstairs."

John's breath caught. For a moment, he was sure Sherlock was going to call him out for snooping. He leaned back, feeling disgusting. None of this was his business. God, just him being here was turning out to be a nuisance for Sherlock.

"I'll promise to keep it down then. Scout's honor."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, but you're bottoming. I've got a case that requires legwork and I'm not risking the pain distracting me."

"What, haven't been messing around lately? I know how bored you get between cases."

"Not recently no. Been busy."

"Well, sounds good to me."

"Remember. Quiet." Sherlock's voice turned authoritative.

"Anything for you, Sherl."

If it was possible, John's face blushed even further. He could feel heat radiating from his cheeks at the sound of clothes rustling, belt buckles clanking.

"Fuck, I missed this." Victor groaned, the sound muffled.

John heard the shuffle of feet and instinctively back up the steps, getting far enough up the stairs that he was shrouded in darkness.

As the two men passed the staircase, John held his breath and prayed to whoever would listen that neither of them saw him.  
Sherlock was pushing the taller man back toward the couch, his hair a gorgeous mess, his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers parted, the bulge of his cock apparent.

"Pull these down and get on your knees," Sherlock commanded from the living room.

John remained frozen on the steps, staring at the empty space in front of him, listening.

"Fuck, yes, yes."

"Spread your legs further."

"Do you have- oh, fuck that's cold." Victor's hiss morphed into a moan. "Jesus."

"Not quite." Sherlock's smirk, the smirk John knew too well, was in his voice. After a moment, he asked, "Can you handle three yet?"

"Yeah, yes." He then grunted. "Jesus, fuck me. Fuck me now!"  
John winced at the sound of skin being smacked, but instead of hearing any protest, the man groaned again.

"I said quiet."

"Yeah, quiet, right. Just, I'm ready."

John, wondering why in hell he was still there, shock maybe, started to push up on suddenly weak limbs, but that was until he heard Sherlock gasp.

"I haven't bottomed in a while either. Enjoy."

"Shut up." The command fell short when it ended in a drawn out moan.  
Sherlock's moans- Christ, _Sherlock's_ moans- started following a rhythm; a gasp, a whine interrupting it every so often, accompanied by the wet smack of flesh.

John ground his teeth and forced himself up the rest of the stairs, rushing into his bedroom, shutting the door and locking it behind himself. He slid down the door, wrapping his arms around his knees, hugging his legs to his chest. His rapid breathing turned to hyperventilation. John let himself fall over on his side, legs still clutched tight, eyes watering, the resulting tears sliding down the side of his face, rolling over his nose, dripping to the floor when gravity proved too much.

John didn't remember falling asleep there, but when his phone alarm started to buzzed from across the room, his face had to be peeled off the wood flooring.


	13. And People Complain About Pillow-Face

John woke up hating the world, his neck and back killing him- what had he been thinking, falling asleep not five feet from a bed? He shoved up onto his knees, scuffling over to his phone to silence the world's most annoying alarm so he could re-remember how to think.  
In retrospect, that hadn't been the best move.  
John sunk down to his legs, his calfs digging into the hard wood awkwardly as memories from last night came into focus, the rest of the room blurring with it's sudden arrival.  
God, and he had such a nice night with Sarah, too. Stayed up watching crap telly until ten-thirty, laughing all the while. She even wrapped her arms around one of his, and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Sarah had taken her brown hair out of its default high-ponytail after finishing the meal, letting it fall nicely alongside her heart-shaped face, then pressed those same strawberry scented strands up against him.  
Now all John could think about was Sherlock moaning: pure pleasure slipping from a mouth that he only knew to spit venom.

_Was it fair to want to punch someone for ruining something they weren't aware they ruined?_

John could at least take solace in the fact that Sherlock treated his lover with about as much respect as he offered John.  
He shuddered to himself, the word lover used in context with his uncle being more than off-putting.  
In all honestly, John had been hoping that Sherlock's comments about asexuality was just the man projecting.

_Hell, who even knew the freakish robot had it in him?_

What John needed was a nice cold shower and six full hours of mind-numbing education.

The cold shower did nothing to impede the imminent thoughts that followed.  
John mentally berated himself for leaving his bed, for staying for more than a minute- just to make sure Sherlock was okay, not bleeding from the head from another stakeout gone wrong-, for blaming Sherlock in the first place, for thinking of Sherlock as a freak when he didn't deserve it, for- for being the freak himself.

John did his best to act normal despite feeling like absolute shit, running down to Speedy's for two coffees with scones to match like he had been doing for the past few days, smiling (poorly) when Sherlock sat at the table (John had made an attempt to clear a corner off for the both if them) to join him.

Sherlock was staring at John with the face that told him he was being quite the open book- despite his best efforts.

Sherlock watched John watch him, and immediately knew. It was obvious, after all; just from he way he was holding himself, and the boy's eyes- red and despondent.  
_Shit._

"John?"

"Yeah?" John looked up from the scone he had picked apart while lost in thought, fingers crossed under the table in a lame attempt to prevent the inevitable.

"Are you alright?"

John stared down at his coffee, watching the steam rise and disappear. "Yeah… it's nothing."

"We've covered this. I can tell when you're lying to me."

"It's just… I get that I'm a bother. And that I get in the way, so when you don’t want me around, just say so."

 _Shit._  
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes no longer analyzing, instead shut closed. "You saw."

John's face flushed, his eyes averting themselves once more.

"I should've turned him away." Sherlock admitted, but after, seemed to be at a loss for words, going silent for quite some time. "I'd understand if you'd want to move out. I wouldn't blame you for wanting to get away from something that disgusts you."

John's face shot up, shocked. "No! No, that's not- I don't care about that. That's- it's fine. It's all fine." John took a deep breath. "I just feel terrible for listening. I didn't mean to- I woke up to the door slamming and came downstairs to check on you, and…"

"Right. Well," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Don't overthink it. It won't happen again."

John avoided looking in Sherlock's direction, just waiting for the proper amount of time to pass so he could excuse himself as soon as possible without appearing as freaked as he was. Despite dreading having to spend six hours stuck at school, John comforted himself: at least it was an escape from Sherlock, the flat, what he'd seen last night, what he'd heard.


	14. Productive Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stews at school, Sherlock does research.  
> Sherlock's curiosity is sparked by John's avoidance.

**SCHOOL**

  


_Why hadn't he left sooner? Why did he stick around- allow Sherlock to analyze him further? Idiot._

John could still picture that stupid, calculating face.

_“You didn’t...” The detective blinked, everything coming together. “You were aroused by it. Ah, I understand the hint of frustration mixed with blatant shame on your face now. It’s perfectly normal, John. Nothing to worry yourself over.”_

_“I’m not gay!” John had shouted without thinking, grabbing his bookbag, leaving his coffee to cool on the table, and running out the door._

_He ended up being forty minutes early for the first bell, wandering around the campus along with other early stragglers and staff. He walked into the second-floor teacher’s restroom and sat in a stall for as long as it took for the bell to ring, occasionally banging the side of his head against the wall._

  


“The hell’s wrong with John?” John overheard Mike asking from behind him, his voice hush-hush.

Andy made an “I dunno” noise, using the water fountain before both boys returned to their game.

John was currently sitting out for Gym, complaining of a stomach ache. Normally Coach would call his bluff, make him run laps, even, but John’s mood was so palpable, thick and threatening enough that the man let it slide just to avoid a brawl.

He was glaring out at the field, not really watching, just stewing in his own thoughts.

 _“You were aroused by it.”_

John threw his fists down against the sidewalk, hissing as the skin blistered open on impact.

Of course, he knew. That arse of a detective knew as soon as John came back from fetching breakfast. As soon as those crystal blue eyes locked onto John first thing in the morning, he knew John had seen, he knew John had gotten hard. Fuck everything to hell.

 _"Get on your knees."_

John rubbed his face, flushed, with both hands, trying to clear his head.

Maybe joining in for a round or two would be better than sulking around with nothing but his traitorous thoughts as company. He offered a curt nod to the empty air around him, attempting to get up. He’ll need to wash the blood from his knuckles, for starters.

 _"Spread your legs further."_

John’s knees buckled before he managed to stand half-way. The boy cursed and stayed put, his arse throbbing from the fall.

**BAKER STREET**

  


“Ah, John. You’re home. Good.”

John shrugged his coat off, hung it up, and held a hand out to silence the man. “Listen, I’m not in the mood. So if you’d just-”

“I spent the morning researching your problem. It was quite a productive endeavor by my standards.”

“My _problem_?”

The man grabbed his laptop from the desk and brought it over to John to see; after a moment of skimming the opened tab, John looked up, confused. “The articles I read through informed me of the hardships teenagers face.” Sherlock placed the computer down in favor of a stack of papers over by the printer. “How the “coming out” and “accepting one's identity” stages can be extremely challenging and stressful on someone your age. But they all unanimously told me to assure you that “it gets better.” Make of that what you wish, for I certainly haven’t the faintest of what it means.” The man’s hands flourished in a strange manner as if social constructs were completely lost on him.

John had to laugh, the man, so intelligent, yet so clueless.

“The forums and chatrooms were quite helpful as well. I printed out some statistics, made up a few graphs, in order for you to comprehend easier.”

John furrowed his brow, a bemused look upon his face as he accepted the papers the nervous man handed him.

“Apparently 1.8 percent of the population identify as bisexual. I say this because you informed me, rather loudly, that you weren’t, in fact, gay. I suppose this information would be filed under the “you’re not alone” articles I found during my research.”

John smiled, shaking his head, flipping through the first few pages. “Is this what you spent your day doing?”

“Well, I hadn’t any cases on, and you left in quite a huff. Amery warned me that if I returned you with any lasting physical or mental ailments that he’d soundly kick my arse- which I doubted his capabilities, but he assured me he’d give it his damnedest because “one does not harm one’s brother’s child without proper repercussions.””

“Don’t worry, you haven’t mentally scarred me- yet, anyway.” John set the thing articles down on the couch’s arm. “Listen, I get that, in some way, this is you trying to be helpful, but I’m fine. Really. If we could just never talk about it. Like ever. That’d be great.”

“Really? Because the websites were adamant that repressing, well, whatever it is you’re feeling is the worst thing to do.”

“I’m not repressing anything. I’m fine.” John sighed, unclenching the fists he’d unconsciously made. “I’ve loads of work to do, though, so I’m going to head on up.” His gestured with his thumb to the ceiling, readjusting his bookbag and nodding once before excusing himself.

  


_Text From-_

Sherlock Holmes:

_What do you do when a child lies to you? SH_

Greg Lestrade:

_Excuse me? Who let you near their children?_

Sherlock Holmes:

_Answer the question. SH_

Greg Lestrade:

_Well, I suppose you punish them. If they’re your kid. But you don’t have a kid, so you shouldn’t be disciplining one._

Sherlock Holmes:

_It’s Amery’s son, John. SH_

Greg Lestrade:

_Let your brother handle it then._

Sherlock Holmes: 

_He’s currently 3,538 miles away. Anyway, he can’t know about this. SH_

Greg Lestrade: 

_Then let your other brother handle it._

Sherlock Holmes: 

_I’m not calling Mycroft. SH_

Greg Lestrade: 

_What’d the kid do, anyway? Break something?_

Sherlock Holmes:

_He lied about having homework. He doesn’t. He finished it all in the library after school as a way to prolong coming back to the flat. SH_

Greg Lestrade:

_Well, that’s not a big deal. Just because he’s avoiding you doesn’t mean you should do anything about it._

_Except apologize._

Sherlock Holmes:

_Apologize for what? SH_

Greg Lestrade:

 _Well, you must’ve done something to make him want to avoid you._

_Though, I suppose that’s sort of your default, isn’t it?_

Sherlock Holmes: 

_Go back to your paperwork. SH_

  


Sherlock tossed his phone onto the couch and trudged up the stairs that led to John's room.

 _Was it his sister? Harriet- or was it Harry? She's gay. Or at least she was the last time Sherlock could recall, and he hadn't heard anything to the contrary. Was that why John was dead set against the idea? They weren't close siblings, that was easy to tell. Not on John's Most Recent Calls or Favorites. They didn't post on each other's social media sites- though John rarely visited them so that deduction was void. It was clear the siblings weren't estranged: John was cordial when she texted, mentioned her casually and without any clear signs of disdain- so simply not close. The reaction, the outburst from this morning, had nothing to do with his sister's sexual orientation, it seemed._  
_Sherlock knew for a fact that Amery certainly didn't mind, which would imply his companion of choice, Liza Watson, wouldn't either- so cross out parentally instill homophobia._  
_Why, then?_

Sherlock decided asking, the direct approach, would probably lead to poorly construct lies made up on the spot, which would in turn get him to the truth sooner. John seemed to be more of an open book when he was lying through his teeth. The man stopped in his tracks, hand frozen on the doorknob.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Releasing the handle, he pressed an ear to the door, trying to make out the noise he'd heard just moments before- unless he was mistaken, although he was rarely mistaken.

_Ah, no, there is was._

Labored breathing, a hitch in the pattern every-so-often. The whisper of sheets being disturbed by a body writhing thoughtlessly, instinctively. The accompanying creaking of mattress springs and bed frame. Sherlock held his breath at the sound of a moan being muffled by a pillow or comforter. His hands twitched, wanting desperately to swing the door open, watch as the scene unfolded. He could just imagine it: John, too exhausted from a day at school, couldn't've been bothered to strip himself of his clothes, jean's zip parted and pants pushed down just-so, the boy's jumper riding up his torso with each twitch, each spasm of his pelvis. His small, compact hands working his cock, tight and swift, desperate for release.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock was mildly aware that it was considered inappropriate to listen to ones flatmate have a wank. Even more inappropriate when said flatmate is one's nephew, for all intents and purposes. 

_Logically, the two of them weren't affliated familial-wise in any way that mattered. They were associated by marriage- a meaningless social construct. It was not as if they related by blood. And even if they were, both of them were male, so the reproductive risks when engaging in sexual intercourse were inapplicable._  
_But John was still a boy. What had Mycroft said, seventeen? Eighteen? Regardless, the boy was still in secondary school. Well, last year of secondary school. Out in a matter of months... No, no. Stop. Amery would kill Sherlock with his bare hands just for considering._  
_Where was this interest coming from, anyway?_  
_Lord, if Mycroft found out, he'd have a field day, probably start spouting Freud- which would be inaccurate, seeing how John wasn't really related to either of them. Not really. Related through a piece of paper._  
_The last time he felt this way, geniunely intrigued, was, well, it had been years. Victor's appeal had run out almost as quickly as it came. Bless his employers, always keeping him in the States. Sherlock couldn't handle him around for longer than a day or two._  
_But John, on the other hand, despite his poorly lacking taste in clothing (the boy's father is Amery Holmes- he could afford top-of-the-line, name-brand-designer everything, for Christ's sake), was less boring than the rest. One might even go far enough to say the boy was interesting._

The interesting boy's breathing was becoming more and more sporadic with each pulse, each tug, each tick of the clock- Sherlock blocked the latter out- and, God, the moans were increasing in volume as well as frequency, John no longer in the position to hold them back; shifting, turning his head in some manner, his mouth went uncovered for a moment, just long enough for a true, unstifled whimper to escape into the open air, to bless Sherlock's ear still pressed against the door.

John started to curse, as if in the form of a mantra, over and over, each increasing in intensity, until the last "fuck" was cut off, a high whine replacing it.

Sherlock desperately wanted to stay, wait and take in the come-down, but he knew the longer he remained there, pressed to the door, the more likely he was to be found out. Taking two steps at a time, Sherlock ignored the uncomfortable bulge pressing against the restraints of his trousers.

A new mantra.

_Just get to your room. Just get to your room._


	15. Kiss and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John kisses Sherlock.  
> Sherlock goes to Lestrade for advice and comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the wait! I had finals and then the holidays came and, yes, so here it is! The next chapter! I'll hopefully be posting to a more regular schedule. Might even get another out rather soon! Hope you've all had a terrific winter!

**BAKERSTREET**

After school, John had made plans with Sarah. The reason for the decision, if John was being honest, had been split sixty-forty. Sixty, being to avoid Sherlock, and forty, to spend time with his girlfriend.

The afternoon had been awful. Not because of Sarah- she had been lovely, even with John's constant spacing out and her having to repeat herself time and time again. No, it was Sherlock. Even when John was avoiding him in person, the man was still there, with him, poking about his brain.

John knocked into something as he approached the couch- Sherlock's foot was hanging off the end of the cushion. The rest of him remained still and blanket-clad, eyes closed and flickering along to REM.

"I went out with Sarah today. Kept thinking about you the whole time." John crouched down beside the man, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing. "You were gone when I came down to fetch us supper. No note, no text. I hoped you had just gone to see that Molly person down at Bart's, but I can see from your face that's not the case," John traced his thumb over the deep purple splotches under Sherlock's cheek and chin. "They got you good, huh? Though, I'm sure you held your own." He sighed through his nose, worrying the inside of his mouth. "Why didn't you wake me? I would've… I know things were awkward, but I still would've gone with you."

This, the same man who nervously flung his limbs about the flat, flitting from paper to paper, trying to make John more comfortable.

John shifted, sitting on his folded legs and resting his arms on the bit of empty cushion left beside the detectives concave stomach. "You know, I don't ever think I've seen you sleep before. Wasn't sure if you did. Was considering the possibility of you being an android or something- no eating, no sleeping, no regard for personal safety…" His voice trailed off, his thought process shutting down as he continued to stare at the sleeping version of Sherlock. He seemed… soft, almost. Calm, quiet; two things John never thought could describe the man.

Without much thought- without any thought, really- John leaned down, pressing his lips to the sleeping man's.

He immediately snapped back, eyes widened, a sharp intake a breath.

Sherlock's eyes were now open, unreadable, as always.

John's hand flew up, covering his mouth and reddening face.

_What did I do that for? He's going to murder me._

When John pulled back, Sherlock sat up, brow now furrowed, his hand instinctively clutching the boy's wrist to disable him. "What was that?"

John could hear his heartbeat in his ears. "I'm sorry!" He shouted over the thumping and tugged his arm from the man's hold, turning to flee.

"John!" Sherlock matched his volume, calling after him as he shot up the stairs.

John didn't stop until his back was flat against the door, both the room and his head spinning.

_Why the fuck does my chest hurt?_

John clutched at his t-shirt, wishing the relieve the growing pressure. With each inhale, he felt himself slipping- hyperventilating. If he didn't calm down his body would forcibly recharge itself; he'd pass out, allowing his lungs to right themselves without panic interfering.

_How fucking manly. Fainting after kissing your fucking uncle. Perfect._

He slouched against the wall beside him, his breathing only increasing, his sight wavering in and out until nothing.

**NEW SCOTLAND YARD**

"What?!" Lestrade spilled his coffee over the three-day-old shirt he was still wearing. "Shit!" He tried swiping at the shirt in a fruitless attempt at salvaging it, but the tepid liquid remained, drenching and staining the Inspector.

"No need to shout, you heard me perfectly clear."

"You-" He ground his teeth. "Hold a moment." He pressed speed dial on the landline. "Donavan?"

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Could you grab me an extra shirt from storage?"

"About bloody time, sir. You should've gone home yesterday. A bit ripe." She chuckled over the intercom.

"Enough, Sally." He grumbled, then added. "I've got a drug-dealing murderer out there that I'm a bit keen to catch- my apologies for the lack of hygiene maintenance."

"Apology accepted, sir." She laughed again, before the sound cut off.

"So-" Lestrade's attention was back on a very annoyed looking Sherlock.

"So, as I was saying, the boy kissed me. How am I to proceed?" Sherlock interjected.

"How- How did this happen?"

"Seriously, Inspector, I really hoped you'd have grasped the process of kissing someone, after being married and all- maybe that's why your wife-"

"Enough, Sherlock!" The man warned. "I meant what lead up to it- the, ah, kiss. Were you two talking about anything in particular, or,"

"I wasn't chatting the boy up, if that's what you mean to imply. In fact, I wasn't chatting at all. I was asleep, or, at least, I was until he woke me."

"Shit- he woke you with a kiss. How very _Sleeping Beauty_."

"Probably not an appropriate time to use that analogy, considering."

"Right- right."

"But no. Although, I believe that's what he- ah, John, assumed. I woke up when I sensed his presence in the flat. And to add insult to injury, he managed to smack my foot before coming to sit beside me."

"So you pretended to be asleep?" The man's face scrunched up uncomfortably. "That's bit creepy, Sherlock."

"Well, I didn't know the idiot was about to kiss me, now, did I?"

"Didn't you?"

Sherlock pulled a furious expression.

Lestrade's hands rose in submission. "Hey, I'm just saying- you're Mr. Know-It-All. You normally see everything coming."

"I see facts. I observe. I don't know how to predicted to bloody future. I can make educated assumptions about a person's possible future actions and reactions, but I can't be sure, and I certainly can't be sure when I can neither see nor touch the person in order to analyze the situation." Sherlock spoke in quick and aggravated clips, eyes glaring and hands waving about.

"Okay, sorry, I just assumed you'd have read the boy's feelings for you prior to now. Guess you're getting soft." He joked.

Sherlock huffed, trying not to rise to the man's taunting. "I knew the boy was attracted to men. I just… hadn't deduced that there was a particular man he had in mind."

"That man being you."

"That man being me."

After a brief pause, Greg spoke. "Didn't you say he had a girlfriend?"

"Yes. The asexual one. He mentioned her, actually, before he kissed me."

"What? They break up?"

"No, he'd just gotten back from a date with her."

"That's… odd."

"Yes, my thoughts precisely."

Greg paused for a moment, before looking up with a look of realization. "Well, maybe he's just frustrated."

"Yes, we both are. I can attest to that."

"No- I meant, ah, sexually frustrated." He averted his eyes.

"Oh. Oh! You think it was a rash decision made off the basis that the boy was sexually frustrated after not "getting it off" with Sarah."

""Getting it off?""

"Something I saw in one of John's text's to an Andy person."

"You've been reading John's texts?" That same pained face returned.

"Not good?"

"Yeah, ah, not good."

"Right." Sherlock made a mental note. "Well, now I know exactly what to do."

"And that is?"

"Make John break up with Sarah. Or the other way 'round, I suppose, if the former doesn't work."

The Inspector shut his eyes tight, trying to follow along. "What? Why?"

"So that I can find him a more ideal suitor. I'm sure it won't be hard. I'll just follow John to school and watch all of his interactions with every age-appropriate boy and girl until I find the proper one."

"Boy and girl?"

"John's bisexual."

"Ah, right. Of course."

"Although, I'm not quite sure if he's emotionally ready for a relationship with a male."

Greg shrugged, leaning back in his chair. " _He_ kissed _you_ , didn't he?"

"True." Sherlock nodded, before taking his leave.

  


**BAKERSTREET** NEXT MORNING

  


"John, I think you should break up with Sarah."

John's eyes went wide before he stare down at the untouched eggs and toast he'd prepared for the two of them. "You're probably right." He muttered, after licking his lower lip.

"Of course, I'm right." Sherlock, now pleased that his plan went so smoothly, allowed his attention to shift to the food before him. "These are eggs. Speedy's doesn't sell eggs."

"Actually, I think they do. But, ah, these aren't from Speedy's." John clarified when Sherlock continued to stare, confused. "I went out, after you left the flat. Had to clear my head and all. I sort of just wandered a bit until I found myself in front of a Tesco, so I went in a bought the things I could remember from the list I've been keeping. So, eggs."

"Right. Good."

"Aren't you gonna eat then?" John asked after a moment.

Sherlock looked back down at the food set before. "Oh, me? No. I don't eat while I'm on a case. Slows me down."

"You- isn't that a bit dangerous. What if a case lasts two weeks?"

"Then I don't eat for two weeks. But that hardly ever happens."

"But you'd starve. You'd most certainly pass out!"

"That does happen on occasion, yes."

"That's rubbish!"

"No, I can assure you, it's true."

"No- I mean it's moronic! What if you're out a stake out and you pass out and the bad people find you?"

"Bad people?"

"You know what I mean! Or, what if you have to fight someone off and you're too malnourish to properly throw a punch?" John narrowed his eyes, poking his fork in the direction of the man's bruise face. "That's what those are from- aren't they? You've been coming back bruised and bloody most every night because you're not at your best."

"Well, I-"

"No, no excuses. Eat. Now."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm hardly going to take orders from a child."

"Eat now or I'll tell my father how irresponsible you're being while having me in your care."

Sherlock glared, a look to match John's, but, after concluding that the threat was, in fact, real and would be carried out, he picked up his toast and took a bite.

"Good. Now finish all of that. And have a glass of juice while you're at it. I'm going to pack and be off." John grinned, triumphant in his success, and excused himself, toast hanging from his mouth as he gathered up his bag.

After a minute, John stopped, hand on the door, turning back to his uncle. "Am I going to have to stay and watch, or will you eat?"

Sherlock made a guttural noise, glare still in place as he took another bite.

"Don’t think I won't check your stool. I'm going to be a doctor- I'm willing to do much worse." He pointed a finger at the man before existing the flat.

JW-  
I forgot to ask, what case are you working on?  
Oh, come on, now. Don't ignore me just bc you're put-out. I know you're itching to brag.

John stared at his phone, walking toward the underground, until he assumed the man had settled on stubborn. Just as he was pocketing the mobile, it chirped. The boy tried, and failed, at stamping down the glorious grin the noise brought.

SH-  
Local low-life drug-dealer turned murderer. SH

JW-  
Really? Sounds interesting- if not morbid. How's that been getting you those beatings?

SH-  
The first, was of course, from the previous case. The most recent injury was obtained while talking to a group of high-strung addicts. I underestimated their strength, unfortunate for me. Two of them managed to get a hit in before I disarmed the group. SH

JW-  
Taken down by strung-out junkies? Told you ya needed food.

SH-  
I was not "taken down." Don't be ridiculous. SH

JW-  
You know, you don't have to sign every text. I know it's you.  
Why didn't you wake me? I would've helped.

SH-  
I'm aware. SH  
On both accounts. SH

JW-  
So, why didn't you?

SH-  
Like I said, I underestimated them. Not something I often do. SH

JW-  
Still.

SH-  
Next time I need to have a chat with a bunch of coked out strangers, you'll be my first call.

JW-  
Good.  
I better be.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a total work in progress. I've never written a fic before and who knows how it'll turn out. Also, I'm without someone to edit out my mistakes, so if there are any, my apologies!


End file.
